


Worlds Away From Who I Was (Wish I Were Here)

by AbelFive



Category: Zombies Run!
Genre: F/F, Mind Control, Rape/Non-con Elements, Temperature Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-01
Updated: 2016-09-01
Packaged: 2018-08-12 08:19:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7927498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AbelFive/pseuds/AbelFive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The you that is still you lies back, thinks of England, survives. The rest of you - the you that is hers, the you that is Moonchild's - answers her when she asks you what you want. [Non-con, scalding, mind control. Spoilers up to late S3]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Worlds Away From Who I Was (Wish I Were Here)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RunnerFive](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RunnerFive/gifts).



> It's not exactly any of the prompts you offered (and you offered so many great ones! Why am I so terrible), but I hope you like it well enough anyway.

The first time it happens, you know you should feel something more. Should feel violated. Scared. Something. You’ve read the news stories, you know something like this isn’t something people just shrug off. But you don’t feel those things. Your body is being played but you - you underneath the body, where you are still you - are closer to applying the old adage of “close your eyes and think of England.” You know the exact phrasing of thinking of the future of England - the need to grit your teeth and bear it to continue the line of citizens - doesn’t apply here. But in another way, thinking of the then England, the countryside, you suppose it could be beautiful and calming. Something someone would turn their thoughts to to rise away from ugly and violent. You can imagine the serenity the English countryside is supposed to offer. The kind of empty peace that’s supposed to fill your head so you are transported away from what is happening to you in the here and now. You know this peace well, because it’s how you got here. After the Jody-monster in the dark and Sam telling you to run-don’t-run-get-away-come-back, she had met you where it was calm and bright and quiet and whispered in your ear. She had met you in your own mind and made it easy, made you float, took the fear and pain and indecision away and made them her own.

With so much of you still in that place, you do not need the bit of you that you took back, the bit of you that’s still you to be lost to it voluntarily. Especially not here. Especially not now.

The England where you have lost everyone and everything, where the dead walk and rip out the throats of the living, where you have been kidnapped and betrayed and shot down - the “now” England - this is the England you need because in that England, this is just another thing to survive. And by this point, surviving is almost a chore. 

The first time - the first few times - it happens, she’s soft and gentle. She trails her fingertips over every inch of you. She delicately brushes her lips across your skin and breathes that you are wonderful and perfect. She slips her fingers down and in and presses her lips to yours softly as she does it.

And as your body presses toward her touch at her bidding, the deepest part of your mind lies back and thinks of Van Ark chaining you to a truck and dragging you through bushes and briars, zombies nipping at your heels. Thinks of helicopters crashing. Thinks of people who have betrayed you, who are dead because of you, who have used you as a tool since the dead started walking. It thinks of coming home after. Back to Abel, and joking with Sam and Maxine, and trying to pull a smile from Janine, and racing the other Runners who are your family. It thinks of surviving and then moving on, putting behind you everything that happened before the coming home. Or, at least, pressing it down into the dark void deeper than the deepest part of your mind that is now all that is left of you. Where this before the coming home is going even as it happens, because how is this any worse than anything else that’s happened to you?

And you might have gotten away with it, too, if the she that calls herself Moonchild didn’t imagine herself in love with you, for whatever her definition of love was. Between bouts of using your body in one definition or another, she sits with you and makes tea. She asks you about your passions and listens intently, fondly, as your mouth opens and your answer rambles out. She tells you secrets about the apocalypse that she knows you will never repeat. She even says that once. That she knows you’ll never tell and then gives you a little wink. Your mouth smiles like she told a joke.

But worst of all is when she stops giving her little commands as she’s touching you. That you want this, want her, love her touching you like this. And your mouth says yes, you’re right, I do, while the you that is you turns away and thinks of Van Ark and Runner 8 and a treadmill. Of wanting to refuse to break in front of them and then that all falling to hell with the prick of a needle. The humilation of showing fear and tears and not even from the not knowing what would happen to you following the injection, but just because some stupid, irrational fears never leave us, and they had found yours. The then you thinks of trying to run and calm your breathing as - just as now - your body fights your mind and gulps in breaths that are too deep and too fast. And in this fear state, the then you feels hyperaware and hypersensitive and the easy prick of a needle feels like a jagged knife. Your puppet-master in the here and now strokes her fingertips over you so gently. So gently you can pretend to pretend that they’re not even there, that you can’t even feel them, when you think about the pain and panic of that then you.

Instead, she asks how you like it, how you want it, about your fantasies. And, of course, you hear your voice answer because it belongs to the rest of you: the you that’s hers and not to the you that’s still you. She says nothing when your mouth closes and a long silence begins its reign over the two of you. The you that is still you watches her from deep inside the you that is no longer yours . Rather than the indulgent gazes she settles on you when your mouth is mid-ramble in answer to whatever she had asked you about your life before the end, her face is blank. She watches your face with no clear expression on her own as the silence lingers. Then she turns away. And you think maybe that’s it.

mean much of anything. Rather than enthralled by whatever is being said to her in your voice, she seems distracted at times, holding her cup tightly and close, absorbing the heat and staring down at is contents. At others, watches you like she’s trying to figure out a puzzle.

Your response to whatever question she had asked winds down and the two of you sit in the silence for a moment. In that silence, Moonchild stares at the table and taps a fingernail against her cup. Your body sits still during all of this, waiting for her next request - the next command - like an obediant dog. Finally, Moonchild seems to come to a decision and puts down her tea. She looks at you and, after a moment,smiles, like you’re precious. The you that is you thinks about Archie. Thinks about how full of joy she was as Moonchild stands and walks over to you. Thinks of her being tortured and being too strong, too stubborn as Moonchild settles down on your lap, trapping you between her legs on either side. Thinks about how you were too late, just like you always are, as she starts shedding your clothes for you and pressing her mouth to your jaw as she does it. Thinks about -

The you that is still you startles out of the now England you lie back and think about by a splash across your chest. Moonchild has leaned away and is watching the area with curiosity. She’s holding one of the cups of tea from the table. The cup is empty.

In the time during the one-sided conversation, the tea had cooled from boiling, but still hot enough that your body - possibly in an effort to protect itself from shock - registered the splash of liquid being poured over you first. In another instant, it starts to register the pain. Out of instinct, your hands start to brush at the tea trailing down, but Moonchild calmly grabs you by the wrists. She looks you in the eyes and tells you to be calm. And the you that is hers does. You wanted this. And the you that is you did.

The drips of tea trailing down from the point of contact leave a trail of heat and warmth, but around your chest and ribs is already red and hot and you know there will be blisters.

You asked for this. You wanted this. No commands when she speaks. Only truths. And the you that is you tries to think Abel being blown up while you watched and how it felt to see Sara die the first time and then the second and the you that is you tries to think of a lot of things as your body whimpers and tries to press up against the woman holding its strings, to transfer some of the heat, or in some mindless belief that pressure will ease the pain, or because it wants to be near the one who is giving it what it asked for, what it wants. Moonchild dips her fingers into the remaining cup of tea, quickly enough that she does not experience half of what your body has, but enough that her fingers are coated. There is a shifting of your bodies together and two of her fingers are suddenly slipping up into you, much warmer than they should be. Too warm, and your legs press together around her wrist to keep them there.

And the you that is still you, for a moment, is part of the you that is hers and when you pull out of it again, you aren’t sure if you can hold it. Because all of the pain that the you that is still you focused on to get through isn’t enough when you are getting the pain in return you felt you deserve for it. Because you wanted this for the punishment, to balance the scales, and, at the same time, wanted it just to want it, even before you needed the punishment. You didn’t want it from her, you didn’t want it now, but with all of the parts of you that are hers arching into her as she presses her too warm fingers out and in and tilts her remaining tea to splash little accidentally spills onto your thighs, it’s hard not to fall into it, and hard to pull back out again.

Each time you do, it’s more and more tempting to stay with the rest of you, where you are hers. The only thing left for you in the you that is still you is the knowledge that you gave in and continue to give in.

And later, when the blisters have started to form and she is dragging her fingernails across your chest (catching them and opening them. After, she will hold you face between her hands and press a soft kiss to your forehead. With a smile and in her voice like air, she will remind you - command you - to take care of them. Don’t let them get infected), she will smile down at you beneather her, where you are pinned to the floor by her fingernails and her hips moving against yours. The you that is you will lie back and think of England. Any England. Then England. Now England. Original-intention-of-the-phrase England. Anything to keep from slipping to the place where you are hers and could love her for giving you what you’ve always wanted, what you asked for, where it would be easy. And she will tell you that you are wonderful and perfect as she digs a fingernail into one of the wounds she’s opened.

Just another thing to survive, the you that is still you thinks. The you that is you hates her, wishes you could be okay with making it easy and slipping away to where you are told you love her, so you do.

But you aren’t the type who is okay with that.

So the you that is you lies back.

Thinks of England.

Survives again.


End file.
